


A Pot That's Mediocre

by a17tabris



Category: He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-20
Updated: 2010-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a17tabris/pseuds/a17tabris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skeletor seeks international aid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pot That's Mediocre

**Author's Note:**

> With this, I wish you an authentic happy Independence Day. I am quite proud of this one, even if it was written randomly at the request of a random character. Psiten gave me "Skeletor", and I had already decided on the other character. So, here you go. Enjoy the Fourth of July, and give James Madison the respect he deserves for being one of the sexiest men in history.
> 
> Title from "Politics and Poker", a song from the great musical _Fiorello!_.

Skeletor roared with a fiery passion. That He-Man had just foiled his plans, again, and he was frankly sick of the pattern. Eternia was weak, and she deserved to be strong. He had long ago given up any claim to the throne on rightful grounds, but it was simply not acceptable to watch– it might no longer be right to call it his country, but it was still his homeland– die a slow and painful death through incompetence. Randor was bad enough, but if the cowardly fool Adam were allowed to succeed to the throne... well, there was no use thinking about that. It could simply not be permitted.

That was why he got in touch with America. He had a reputation for solving world problems. The stories said that he alone had made all of Europe drop their arms at the beginning of the twentieth century, and even if it wasn't exactly clear to Skeletor what a "Europe" was it was clear that this was the man he wanted on his side in the present conflict.

He went through all the proper channels: a few agents in bars here and there, a few high-ranking private citizens on business trips to New York, and finally he made an arrangement to meet America himself in– these had been the exact words of the man's request– "the seediest bar in the Greyskull."

It didn't make sense to Skeletor that they would have to meet in a dive bar instead of enjoying themselves in one of his spacious diplomatic conference rooms, or why they should do so in the midst of his enemies. But America was the man with experience in these kinds of affairs, and there was nothing to do but assume that he knew what he was doing.

When he actually showed up in the bar, wearing a ridiculous detective hat and calling for Skeletor by name, it became a bit harder to make that assumption. Skeletor– who had fortunately put on a false face for the meeting– promptly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him outside.

"That's not a name you want to say too loudly around here," he hissed at the foreigner. "Some people, particularly in this part of the country, are none too friendly towards that particular gentleman." He only remembered about halfway through to affect the obnoxious accent of the locals.

America, for his part, didn't seem to appreciate the importance of the warning. "Oh? But I was supposed to meet him here! If people don't like him, they might not like me, and I don't want that!"

His disappointment was so loud and blatant that Skeletor just knew it had to be faked, but his following happiness looked just as fake. "But don't worry about me," he said, jabbing a thumb at the star on his chest and flashing what looked like a very well-practiced grin. "They like me everywhere!"

"That's wonderful," Skeletor ground out through gritted skull. "Perhaps we should take this conversation somewhere a little more private. I have a castle we could use..." He was grateful for the mask that gave him the ability to wink. Not that America noticed.

"I'd love to talk," and he winked back, and Skeletor wondered just how badly his wink had been misinterpreted, "but I need to wait here for Skeletor. I promised him my aid, and I," the glint in his eyes was not so reassuring as he clearly thought, "I always keep my promises."

"Look." Skeletor lifted the chin of his mask. "I am the one you seek."

He wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected, but it wasn't what he got. "That's so cool! I mean, I'm like a secret agent hero, but you had a clever disguise and nobody suspected! I'm, like, in awe!" He grabbed Skeletor by the arm, and to his credit he only seemed a little shocked by the lack of flesh. "Quick, let's duck into this alley and discuss our secret business!"

The so-called alley was really one of Greyskull's main streets, but as they walked and talked– he eventually convinced America that an incomprehensible code wasn't strictly necessary– they hammered out a military solution. It was mutually beneficial, and even if it required a bit more of Skeletor than he'd intended... He'd never meant to rule, just to get rid of the current fools, but he could put up with being a temporary king so long as he could get off the throne as soon as possible.

***

It was during the rebuilding process– not so necessary as he had feared, actually– that he became fairly certain of his savior's insanity. He could have dealt with the phone calls at three in the morning if they'd actually had to do with any of the issues at hand. And to be fair, they'd started out that way. The ideas weren't always the best– one of the first rings had been to suggest that they dig a water main using nuclear weapons– but there had been a time, in the couple of months after the war, when America had been in constant correspondence regarding the construction of infrastructure. It had been flattering, actually, to think that his country deserved the attention of such a man.

But when the reconstruction was mostly done, and he didn't need help anymore— it just might have been nice to go one night without America calling to whine about England's unavailability and demanding that they go out to the bar.

"America," Skeletor grumbled, "it's three a.m. I have a full day of government ahead of me, and we've gone out drinking every night for the last five weeks. I need some time to myself. Go bother Canada or something."

It shouldn't have been possible to pout over the phone. "Canada won't hang out with me until I stop involving myself in foreign wars. It's your fault that I don't have anyone else!" For all Skeletor knew, that might have been the case. Nobody had ever joined them at the bar, but he'd always assumed that it was America's clumsy attempt at romance, or whatever the friend equivalent was. "Skeletor, I don't have anyone else!"

Skeletor sighed. "You don't have me either, at least not tonight."

America's gasp was loud, even over the phone. "Your basketball is made French?"

Skeletor wasn't sure what he had done to deserve that last one. "My what?"

"You didn't learn our code? I made that code especially for you!"

"Listen. I'm going to hang up now. If you don't call back, maybe I'll speak to you again tomorrow."

"But I..." Skeletor didn't wait for any more. He slammed the receiver down.

When it rang again, he unplugged the phone from the wall. The flaw in this plan only occurred to him when he saw the ICBM in the night sky over Greyskull. Just before the nuclear flames erupted, reducing his subjects to skeletons and his Majesty to ash, he let out a passionate scream of rage. "Foiled again!"


End file.
